The son of a Catholic father and Southern Baptist mother, I was raised a bit of a spiritual mutt. That is to say, although I considered myself Southern Baptist in practice, it was my lot to attend Catholic school for the majority of my formative years, and thus, to attend the weekly ritual known as all-class mass. As if my lanky frame and pock-marked face were not enough, my distinct misfit status was highlighted by the Sisters of Mercy’s public pronouncements that I should refrain from sullying the holy water with my under-aged protestant fingers, or signing myself in the name of the Trinity, or attempting, even for one sullen second, to enter the eucharist line.